The Departure of Samwise
by Maenad1
Summary: The fate of the last Ringbearer.


"Are you finally going then, Sam?"

It was a familiar voice, but an unexpected one, which made the old hobbit start and turn from his packing; few enough things, perhaps, for one who had once sworn he could bear enough for two, but valuable, and some obviously so: an old cloak of exceptionally fine weave with a broach for a clasp shaped like a leaf fashioned in silver and green, an empty box of grey wood, marked with an elf rune, a sword wrought for little hands, or a dagger for large ones, long unused but clean of rust.

"It's a day for travelling, Master Brandybuck," Samwise rejoined, abruptly wishing he had thought to lock the door before he began his preparations. Courtesy ought to have prevented interruptions, but curiosity oftentimes proved a stronger force amongst hobbit-kind. "And there's no use in talking; my mind's made up."

"I can see that," said Meriadoc Brandybuck dryly, leaning against the doorframe. "Is there something that seeps from the floor polish in Bag End that makes its inhabitants inclined to go off without bidding goodbye to old friends?"

Sam looked defensive, though he resumed stuffing his various belongings, trinkets and treasures into the old, faded bag. "You're quick to accuse, when I've not stirred a step out of doors, yet. How did you know, then?"

They were both of them aged figures, with faces lined and weathered and curly dark hair gone to frizz and grizzle with the years like something used to scour pots. Having been much taller in his youth, Meriadoc was more stooped at the shoulders than his companion. The hands of Samwise were bent and gnarled with long labour, and on Merry's brow there was an old, faded brown scar.

"Oh, Sam-lad," Merry laughed. "You're as bad as Frodo ever was. Neither Pippin nor I are yet so old and senile that we can't still be Conspirators at need. We've been keeping an eye on you, or several eyes, rather, when one can use those of grandchildren and great-nieces and nephews. We thought it might be today. A sense of ceremony and all. I expect Pippin will be here any second, once he decides you couldn't have beaten him to the Havens."

"Old habits're the longest about dyin', an' bad 'uns most often need to be hit over the head with a stick to finish the job, as my Gaffer would've said," Sam said, his grim expression lightening to a rueful smile and affecting a broader accent for the proverb. "But I did my duty, Merry, didn't I? Things can't be as they were, but we've done well here, and Saruman's not much more than a fireside tale to these folk and the Dark Lord less than. We did what Mr Frodo said we should, as much as anyone can."

"I daresay even Gandalf couldn't find much to complain of in our conduct these past years, though on that count I've been mistaken before. All the same, you can't go dashing off this minute. You ought to write a farewell to old Strider at least, you owe him that much. And if _you_ go disappearing, after Bilbo's and Frodo's tricks on that score, we'll have trouble keeping the young hobbits from having another try at digging up the floor in search of treasure-- do you remember what happened after Bilbo went away?"

"Certainly I do. Though they're welcome to look, for all of me. Great stories are a fine thing to have sitting across the road, once the orcs and dragons've been taken out of them. And my will's made out, all right and proper, and the post riders went out yesterday with word to the King, and to Masters Gimli and Legolas and Lord Faramir, too, not to be impolite about it, and there were notes for you and Pippin, if you'd come by a few hours later to find them, rather than delaying me. I even," Sam added with a laugh, "thought to put in a bit of rope, though I doubt I'll be wanting it this time."

"Then you have thought of everything," Merry admitted, moving further into the room to peer at the contents of his friend's sack. "Though I don't know what Legolas will say, after all these years of hearing us say he mustn't go."

"He'll invent a song about it, like as not," Sam grumbled tolerantly. Long association with Elves brought the knowledge that their liking for songs and poetry surpassed even that of hobbits for mushrooms, and to give them a theme was a dangerous business. Fine folk and fair, their wisdom was beyond question and Samwise held them in special reverence, but Legolas was an old comrade, and could be gently mocked. "But it'll be Gimli's ears that'll be wearied with his rhymes, not yours and mine."

"'The Passing of the Last Ringbearer,' yes," Merry smiled. "If you cannot stomach the thought of a thousand Legolases, all singing constantly, you had better not go."

"There are other reasons," said Sam gravely, lifting his pack.

Before Merry could devise an answer to that-- if indeed there was one-- there was the sound of a door opening, and feet in the hall, and a light voice shouting: "Confound you, Sam, if you're not here I don't know where to look."

"He's here," Merry called back, as the shape of Peregrin Took appeared in the doorway. "Caught in the midst of a disappearing act."

Pippin was stouter than Meriadoc, though not much shorter, and being some years younger, there were still several darker streaks in his greying hair. Behind him stood a sturdy hobbit in his fifties; this was his son, Faramir, who had unaccountably inherited something of his namesake's visionary look.

"Didn't I say so, Father? And Goldilocks was sure he wouldn't go without saying farewell to Elanor, at least."

"Perhaps not," said Peregrin, attempting a stern look his mild features did not support. "But he'll also bid goodbye to my daughter-in-law, if I've any say in the matter. Come along, Sam, I've ponies for four. We'll detour to Bywater. One last ale with old friends."

There seemed little choice to be had, and Sam was summarily hauled away and set on a pony between the Thain of the Tooks and Master of Buckland, with Faramir ordered to play vanguard, lest Master Samwise should 'acquire any ideas of galloping,' though having been caught, he seemed docile enough. Some dispute followed between the Master and Thain as to whether _The Ivy Bush_ or _The Green Dragon_ was the more suitable establishment, though eventually Sam's taste in beer was deferred to and _The Dragon _preferred, and they arrived in a flutter of elven cloaks and a sparkle of mail, like the old days, and Faramir was despatched to fetch his wife, Goldilocks, daughter of Samwise the Gardener.

Within there was a spate of taletelling going on; The Battle of Helm's Deep and the Fall of Isengard, of all things, a most miraculous choice, as it was not a particular favourite amongst the hobbit-folk, not having a humorous ending, and being mostly concerning people and doings far away. For stories of battles they generally preferred The Battle of Bywater, and in fact the only merit that this particular story possessed was that among the heroes were their own Thain and Master, who were friends of the King, and the villain was old Sharkey, whom they themselves had cast out.

Of course, they got half the names wrong, and muddled the chronology, and after his second ale, Merry was obliged to interrupt the taleteller in disgust and take up the story. "No, no, it was the _Huorns_ who came to the aid of the King. The Ents were busy at Orthanc. Do none of you listen?"

"What do you expect, Cousin Brandybuck?" Pippin drawled. "We neither collect nor write books to be read, but to fill _mathom_ houses."

Nobody minded, really. Master Meriadoc was a spirited storyteller, a fine example of the odd Brandybuck strain and the terror of Brandy Hall. He was learned, he was; knew more words than you could find anywhere, even in a book, and more than that: where they came from and who made them up and why, though some said Mayor Gardener knew more of stranger tongues, like Elvish, if any had cared to ask him of it. Now he was of a different sort, their Mayor. Retired of course, these many years, but he had been the authority in Hobbiton for too long for it to be easily forgotten. Even the present Mayor gave up his chair, when Master Samwise was in the room. Quiet and soft spoken as you please, unless he thought something needed doing, and then it got done one way or another, and he was terribly suspicious of strangers. And anybody who cared to look at his family tree knew he had begun as gardener to Mad Baggins, and gone off adventuring with his heir, and perhaps done braver deeds than even those that the Master was talking about. But he knew about planting and sowing, digging and building, and the practical sorts of things that swords wouldn't fix, however grand they sounded, and for that they respected him, however queer his past.

Merry finished up his tale, and Goldilocks fussed over her father and served him with her own hands, and Pippin followed it with a comic recount of the reunion of the Fellowship at Isengard, which enchanted as much as it scandalised, for they weren't quite certain it was proper to talk of the king as he did, even if he was one of the Big Folk.

In Peregrin there was something of the old soldier, and they said that he and Merry both were knights of somewhere or other, as well as King's Counsellors. Quick to jest and quicker to laugh, yet there was something more to him than glitter, and though he had struck no blow in years, there were miscreants who yet lived who had felt the flat of his sword, and ruffians long dead who had felt the bite of it. "And mind yourselves, little ones," he sometimes said to his grandchildren with a laugh, "and be sure to be good. You wouldn't want to see me if I were to become _hasty_." 

As it was, he was in fine humour and finished his story with a flourish. "Gimli had come all that way, through fire and peril, but he had lost his pipe in Moria-- the old dwarf city-- so I had to give him one, to even the score for his worry, though the King was more careful, and we sat out in the sunshine and Strider stretched out his legs-- as long as you if you could stand on your own head to double your height, young Doderic-- and smoked Longbottom Leaf!"

This homely allusion earned the Thain a rousing cheer from his audience, but he was silent with his eyes on Samwise, who in turn was watching the tide in his mind's eye.

They rose, the three of them, and Sam bade farewell to Faramir and embraced his daughter, who wept a little but did not plead, and they went on again mounted on their ponies and singing, but bearing ever west.

Sam had never understood what the Elves meant by the call of the sea until Rosie died. There had always been a part of him that wanted to go, of course, but that had nothing to do with oceans or Blessed Isles, ships or elves or stories. That was the memory of his Master's face and voice, the pang of the bittersweet voyage that had brought healing and rest to Mr Frodo, but also a terrible separation of two who had endured hardships together no song could express, and survived on love and strength of will alone. He would be there, waiting, until his servant came. Once, in the spider's lair, Sam had thought his Master had gone down dark paths alone where he might never find him again, having delayed too long to catch at his heels, weighing his duties, but Frodo had come back then, and had needed only a little help to come to himself again. That would not occur again. Many years had passed, and it might have been decreed that such a sundering was necessary, but the Ringbearers, all three perhaps, for there was unsurpassed strength in Mr Bilbo as well, would take the last journey together. And the longing for the reunion, for speech and song and long years of companionship on the Elvish Isle with the long sleep at the end of it, never again parted, was ever present in the back of his busy mind, and lent a certain wistful grace to his callused hands.

But there had been other considerations, other loves, other duties. Rosie first of all, comforter and sweetheart, and his own children and his children's children afterwards, and then Merry and Pippin, grown so tall and wise and fierce and glad, and Strider the King away in the White City, to whom he owed more than allegiance, and Queen Arwen and Gimli and Legolas, and all the folk of the Shire and their cousins in Bree. The trees that had been planted needed tending, and the little Mordor in the Shire had needed cleansing away with more careful touches than the first scouring, the few scattered remnants of the Shadow that had fled their way had needed beating back and many counsels had needed hearing, that while the world of Men might never again impinge upon the peace of the Shire, neither might it be estranged from them, should the Big and Little Folk ever have need of each other again.

When Rosie had gone on her own last journey, another melancholy farewell, the sea itself had begun to grow in his mind: the memory of the waves and the salt in the air, and the sails of an Elf Ship, themselves like the wind, and fair voices singing and beckoning, and he had thought that the great task he had felt settle itself on his shoulders as he prepared to leave the Shire all those years ago might at last be done.

So they rode and sang, some Elvish songs, but mostly those Bilbo had written or translated, and squabbled over the lyrics. Pippin swore that Merry had invented that last verse all on his own, and thrown it in for vanity, Merry denied it fiercely and said he could show him the place in the book; asking Sam to mediate he would only say that he had never liked songs about Mordor, and mightn't they sing the one about ale again, and both Thain and Master agreed he was dodging the question. Thus they came to Undertowers, home of the Warden of Westmarch and his wife Elanor the Fair, and bade Elanor come out. Then Sam kissed Merry and Pippin, with all the solemnity that Frodo had all those years ago.

"We lose too many good folk this way, Sam, between elves and hobbits who lose their heads," Merry laughed, with a tear catching in the creases on his face. "Don't worry, we'll ride a little behind, and escort Elanor home, and tell Cousin Frodo we remember him, if only for the worry he caused us."

"Ask Gandalf if he still thinks me a fool," Pippin grinned, throwing his arms about Sam's neck. "And if he says no, tell him I take my hat off to him for his good sense, and if he says yes, never mind and say the same. He tends to know best."

Then they drew back and Sam got off his pony and walked on with Elanor.

"Where are you going, Father?" she said.

"To the Havens, Elanor."

"And I can't come," with a sweet smile. Elanor knew her part well, and had been practising it since girlhood; though she had no memory of the Master of whom her father was so fond, she had been raised to honour him and knew where Sam would go, when duty released him.

Sam knew you weren't supposed to have favourites amongst children. But Elanor was a special case. He was proud of her. Of her resemblance to her mother, overcast with that unusual Elvish beauty; if ever a hobbit could be said to have a pretty foot, it was she. Proud of her grace and the hobbit sense that had made Arwen smile when they met. Moreover she had been born in those glorious years of homecomings when he had thought all trials and sorrows were behind them forever.

He took out of his pack the Red Book that was Bilbo's story and Frodo's and his-- and Merry's and Pippin's and Gandalf's and Aragorn's and Legolas' and Gimli's and that of poor Boromir as well, for whom he could no longer summon any ire, remembering the awful weight and lure of the Ring, and all the dwarves of Thorin's company and many of the Wise and Great-- and gave it to Elanor, who looked at it with curiosity.

"Father, your book!"

"Not mine, really. Only the last pages. Mr Bilbo's and Mr Frodo's first, and yours now."

"Won't the Elves want it?"

"Maybe they will," he smiled. "But I'm thinking there are other folk than elves in the world who need to remember what's been. Elves don't forget, not for a hundred thousand years, but we need reminding sometimes, us and Men and Dwarves. You look after it, and keep an eye to Merry and Pippin's books as well, and see that nobody forgets the things they ought to recall."

"All right, Father," Elanor laughed. "And you must give my love to Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo, since I've heard so much about them, and if you're not teasing me, and I did once spit milk all over Mr Frodo's best waistcoat, you must convey to him my apologies."

"I promise," Sam said, smiling, and having kissed Elanor too, walked away. She took up a place on the Tower Hills and pensively watched the dwindling form of Samwise the Gardener until she could no longer discern it from the grass, and then she went back down to the Thain and Master and took the pony Sam had left and turned for home. Being more forthcoming than her father, when asked she admitted that Uncle Merry was right about the song, and Uncle Pippin must have forgotten.

As for Sam, he went on, on foot, now and then pausing to liberate a flower from the clutches of bracken, or to turn back coming over a rise and view the Shire in all its simple splendour, until the grass turned to sand and the trees to waves and he encountered a company of Elves aboard a great grey ship, whose leader hailed him.

"Greetings, Last of the Ring Bearers! Long we have tarried, awaiting your coming. Hobbit folk do not hurry, it seems, even on such a journey as this."

"I should like to see how fast you could go, Lord, if you were cut down to a normal size," Sam chuckled, but he bowed. "We can't all of us have Elf-Magic to sustain us."

"No indeed! But for the companion of Frodo, exceptions may be made. Come aboard, Master Samwise, if you will. We can wait no longer."

Sam scrambled on board quickly, mostly because he still distrusted boats, and would be happiest when one had the least chance of slipping away beneath him. The Elves laughed, but they took his pack from him and set it with their own: "You have borne enough in your day, Little Master!" and the ship drew away from the shore, following many that had gone before and leading many that would come afterwards.

There was much singing, some strange and some familiar, and apples better than he had ever tasted, even when he took them from the dishes of Gildor's folk, but on the clear nights that followed the clear days aboard the vessel, Samwise watched to the west as fervently as any of the Elven folk, and to their calls of "_Elbereth!_" he smiled, and murmured: "_Master_."


End file.
